


lights will guide you home (and i will try to fix you)

by hydrangeasheart



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Disordered Eating, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Minor Injuries, Piglin Hybrid Technoblade, all i know how to do is write sickfic, and it's implied techno has self-harmed before too, i have sbi brainrot, i will continue to ignore the fact that wilbur and techno are canonically twins, it might be better idk, its not super obvious but all my fics have that, listen im having a night, middle child technoblade supremacy, not edited because i'm finishing it at 4am, nothing graphic but tommy has both scars and fresher cuts, or quickly for me anyway, so............ about recent events, talk of manipulation, they talk abt what dream did to tommy a lot, this is just me freaking out and writing a fic really quickly, this took like 3-4 hours lmao, this will be noncanon with the next stream and i do not care, update: it's noon the next day. i edited it, veers into sickfic territory at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:27:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28107789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hydrangeasheart/pseuds/hydrangeasheart
Summary: As the afternoon begins to drag to evening, the sky darkening, he goes home. The temperature is dropping sharply without the sunlight, so he hurries as quickly as he can through snow and trees.And that's when he sees the first sign of something wrong; new footsteps. Stamped into the snow outside his house.His blood goes cold in a way completely unrelated to the later hours.// Or, i got hyperfocused on this fic and wrote until 4am.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Dave | Technoblade & TommyInnit, TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), but like. negatively
Comments: 31
Kudos: 1110





	lights will guide you home (and i will try to fix you)

**Author's Note:**

> tommy's free tommy's free tommy's free tommY'S FREE!!! 
> 
> ahem. i'm cool and good. anyway. i had to create this because we are getting techno and tommy+roleplay heavy content tomorrow and i am 100% not ready 
> 
> it's not gonna be this soft. i know it won't. it will surely hurt as much though
> 
> anyway, sleepy bois angst abound. you signed up for tommy angst but i will give you that and more y'all 
> 
> title from fix you by coldplay

Technoblade is a man of intuition. He's not about to say he's a genius, or that he's more competent than most people (though he definitely thinks it sometimes) but his intuition is almost always right, especially when negative events are concerned. 

Which is why he's so aware that something is going to go wrong when he wakes up for the day. His house is quiet. The sun is just rising, and last night's snowfall has settled into high drifts below the windows. Nothing seems outwardly wrong. 

He sits up in bed. One ear twitches as he listens very carefully for any sign of something being Wrong. 

Not a peep. 

It could just be the usual paranoia and suspicion one gains while alone. He's suspicious even when he's not alone, so he supposes it makes sense. Even after all these years, he doesn't trust contented feelings. 

He gets up. He gets dressed warmly for the day. He braids his hair while sitting in front of the fire. He has breakfast, and then heads out into the cold to make sure everything's okay.

Everything seems fine. No one has come and messed with his things. There's not even any signs of footsteps other than his own, Phil's, and those of animals. 

The feeling mellows out as the morning wears on. 

He hunts. He tends to his crops. He even indulges in simply sitting under a tree under a shaft of oddly-warm sunlight and reading a book. He's retired, he can do things like that. (Part of him finds being retired at twenty-one kind of hilarious.)

(For a few minutes, he even dares to let himself ponder what's happened. His older brother is dead, by their father's hand-- his chest tightens with grief. 

Wilbur... 

Wilbur was a madman, and that's coming from the man who hears voices all the time. He had entirely lost his mind by the time he died.

Wilbur was honestly a shitty brother who had treated him cruelly more than once, and shut him out for no real reason for years.

Techno misses him so strongly that it feels like an open wound across his heart. If he cries over yellow sweaters and guitar strings and years of childhood memories, there's no one to tell but the trees and the animals.)

Everything is... fine. He's alone, but not lonely. He no longer feels like something's wrong. His mind does that to him often; makes him anxious for no reason. Such is the curse of his existence, he supposes.

As the afternoon begins to drag to evening, the sky already darkening, he goes home. The temperature is dropping sharply without the sunlight, so he hurries as quickly as he can through snow and trees.

And that's when he sees the first sign of something wrong; new footsteps. Stamped into the snow outside his house. 

His blood goes cold in a way completely unrelated to the later hours. 

He follows the steps towards the house. They go inside, of course. There's a few still-wet shoeprints on the floor, along with what looks more like bare footprints. He huffs in annoyance, distracted by a fussy desire to keep his house clean. What? A man can desire cleanliness. 

He follows them through the house, and he finds... a ladder. Leading below the house. His brows furrow together and a drop of the morning’s anxiety falls into his stomach. Why... would there be a ladder leading underground? If someone came to rob him, why would they stay? 

He goes and looks through his chests. Things are missing, sure, but nothing he didn't expect. Enchanted weapons, Ender pearls... golden apples, arrows, some string, coal... Nothing serious. Nothing he can't replace. He's angry about it, but honestly, he's used to it. People steal from him; getting too angry about it is a waste of precious energy. 

(There's a flash of rage, of instinct-- _my things, my loot, my_ **_gold_ ** _, mine mine mine_ \-- but he pushes it down, ignores the voices screaming for the thief's head. Not now.)

Just before he can heft his axe onto his back and go down the ladder, he hears... music. 

His head cocks instinctively, ears twitching. It's definitely music; who would be playing music? 

It clicks into place. It has to be Tommy. The only person who would be playing music while (apparently) trying to hide would be Tommy.

He scowls. Why would Tommy be there? Tommy's been exiled, he's off... somewhere else. And he's well hidden. No one knows where he is.

So why is he somewhere under Techno's house? 

He goes down the ladder. It wasn't well hidden, and they're actually a bit crooked on the wall. A sign that whoever put them there wasn't doing it with their mind entirely in the right place. 

A pit of anxiety settles in Techno's stomach.

It goes down fairly far, actually. The walls are oddly rough-hewn, as if Tommy's hands had been shaking while mining down. 

When he reaches the bottom, he's surrounded by yellow. For a quick moment, he's thrown back to his memories of childhood; the room he shared with Wilbur until age fifteen had yellow walls, though lighter than these, and he spent so long staring at and hating them. He _hates_ yellow.

He stands at the bottom of the ladder, looking around. 

Sitting in the corner, slumped against the wall with his eyes shut, is Tommy. Next to him, a jukebox sits, music coming from it quietly. He can't recognize the song, but it's... sad, whatever it is. Or maybe it's just sad because what he's looking at is sad. 

Tommy looks _awful_. 

He's always been lanky, all muscle he's earned being of the lean kind, but now, he's frighteningly thin and his bones stick out sharply, his elbows, wrists, knees looking like they're trying to escape his skin. (Has he eaten anything in the time he's been gone?)

There are bruises and cuts littering his skin. His knees are almost black with bruises, and his elbows are covered in scabbed-up scrapes. He's bandaged in places, mostly his hands, but not enough places. His left eye is slightly blackened and what looks like dried blood is matted in his blonde hair, smeared under his nose. His shins look like they've been burned, along with a similar wound on his left arm. And that’s what can be seen. 

A pickaxe rests next to him on the floor, and a sword is leaned up on the jukebox. He's wearing armor, but it's obviously heavily damaged, to the point of almost uselessness. 

And somehow most disturbingly, there's what looks like dust from explosions all over his completely tattered clothes. Including-- and oh, does Techno's stomach twist like a vice-- an incredibly familiar jacket. It’s Wilbur’s old jacket. He thought it had been lost, but of course Tommy would cling to it. 

He planned to scold him for stealing from him and hiding out below his house-- like he wouldn't _immediately_ notice-- but seeing him in such a sorry state makes him hesitate. He's obviously hurt, in several ways, and he's just sitting there, either sleeping voluntarily or unconscious. 

He's abrasive, and annoying, and headstrong, and betrayed Techno so recently the wounds are still painful. Hell, he just stole from him, just like everyone else. He's still angry with him, he still wants to strangle him for how much it hurt him, broke his already tenuous trust. 

But looking at him, trying to comfort himself with music and just trying to be safe, he supposes-- he supposes he softens a _little_. He looks small and young and vulnerable, and as heartless as Techno can be, he can't be that cruel. 

He plans to just... leave. Leave and let Tommy pretend to be sneaky, to let him hang around under the house. He'll tell Phil when he gets back, and maybe they'll find a way to handle it. 

He's already turned to climb up the ladder.

But then Tommy sits up, blue eyes that somehow look dulled flying open. His hand wraps around the pickaxe, and the other reaches for the sword, but his brows are drawn in confusion and sleepiness is still painting his expression.

Techno turns around again, looking at him, only slightly startled by the sound of him moving around. He looks... wrong. That kind of lost expression doesn't suit Tommy's face. 

He opens his mouth to say something, maybe call him out for stealing, but he doesn't get the chance. 

His little brother scrambles to his feet-- he's only wearing one shoe, and the sock he wears is obviously soaked from the snow outside-- and immediately throws down the pickaxe and the sword. 

Apologies fall from his mouth. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'll give everything back! You just had s-so much and I didn't really have anything, a-and I'm-- I'm sorry," he kicks the tools forward. They hit Techno's boots. 

"What?" He asks, thoroughly confused. He looks between the tools at his feet and his brother. "Tommy--" 

"You c-can burn it, or just keep it, it's your stuff anyway." He says, shakily. His dulled eyes are wide in panic, all glassy like he’s going to cry, and he starts emptying out the pockets of his coat, the threadbare bag on his shoulder. "Y-you could kill me too, but I'm, um, on my last life, so you'll have to find a monster or something-- lava works too--”

"Tommy," Techno says, raising his voice to cut through the teenager's rambling. He doesn't think he sounds angry, but Tommy freezes so completely you'd think he screamed. The dull look in his eyes is replaced by fear, and he takes a half step back. "I'm not gonna take your stuff." _I’m not going to kill you_.

His eyebrows raise quickly, and then furrow. "You're not...?" He asks, voice changing from it's rapid, panicked tone to something heartbreakingly quiet. Techno's stomach hurts at the sound; he sounds so _young_ , like he's still the little kid he was when they adopted him. "But it's your stuff. I-- I stole it. I don't need it." His hands raise to take off his armor, fumbling with the fastenings on his chestplate. "You can have this too, I--" 

"Take it back," he says firmly. "You stole it, yeah, but I don't really care. I can get more. And keep your armor." 

Tommy's hands curl around the straps holding on his chestplate. "I stole from you," he says, still quiet. "And you want me to keep it?" 

In any other life, Tommy wouldn't be asking that question. Tommy would just take it. He's always taken things from Techno, even before all this-- hell, the boy's first sword was stolen from him, while he was off doing whatever he did when he was a kid himself. 

So it leaves him with another question; _what the hell happened to Tommy to change him so drastically?_

"Yeah, I want you to keep it." He says, a touch softer. "You can stay down here, if you want, but," his eyes dart to his wounds, especially the... burns? "I've got stuff to clean you up, if you need it." 

Tommy is staring at him the whole time he speaks, emotions flickering across his face. He can't figure out most of them, they pass too quickly, but he's sure of what he settles on. A mix of gratitude and relief and sadness. 

He has about three seconds to brace himself before he has his arms full of crying teenager. Tommy's hands curl in the front of his cape and he buries his face in his shoulder, letting out quiet sobs. 

It’s instinct, more than conscious thought, that drives him to wrap his arms around him. Some latent Older Brother muscle-memory, he supposes. Tommy cried a lot as a kid. 

“It’s okay,” he says quietly, raising his hand to run through his hair. It’s grown out a lot; it nearly brushes the base of his neck. It’s fairly greasy, too. He smells strongly of smoke and ash and general dirtiness. 

And he’s really, really warm. He worries for a minute that he might have hypothermia, but he wouldn’t be so… coherent, if that was the case. He’s definitely unwell, though; he’s too warm for it to be healthy, and he’s so pale...

His sobs quickly taper off, and he pulls away, sniffling and rubbing tears off his flushed, bruised face with his bandaged hands. “‘M sorry, I just… I think I just missed being able to hug people.” 

Techno nods, too distracted to pay attention to the words by the injuries he can see, now that he’s closer. His lower lip is split, his nose is slightly crooked (not quite broken-looking, maybe fractured?) and the dark circles under his eyes tell of sleep deprivation. His hands are bandaged from the second knuckle to the wrist, but even that doesn’t cover the cuts on his wrists. 

Wait. He looks at the small, scabbed wounds on his arms a bit closer. They’re… almost familiar. They’re surrounded by scars, too. Little horizontal lines, from his hands almost to his inner elbows.

Empathy curls in his stomach. _Oh, Tommy._

“Come on, let’s go and clean you up,” he says, a bit too bluntly, and waves for Tommy to climb the ladder first. 

\--

A few minutes later, they’re sitting in front of the fire. 

Techno sacrificed some of his clothes for Tommy to wear-- it’s way too cold to be running around in what he was wearing-- and they’re too big on his skinny body, even though he’s not that much bigger than him. The sight almost makes him sick; it looks wrong, like he’s been starving to death.

“What’s the worst one?” He asks, handing him a potion as he sets out bandages and medicines. “We’ll start there.” 

“Uh…” Tommy frowns. He takes a little sip of the potion, grimacing at the taste. “The burns are pretty bad?” 

“Alright.” He says. “How’d these happen?” 

He winces as Techno starts cleaning the wounds. “Ow. Um, Dream blew up a bunch of my stuff and the explosions got me a little bit.” 

His eyes narrow. “What was Dream doing with you?” He inspects the wounds, having cleared away some of the dirt and ash-- they don’t look horrible, but they’re still raw and red looking. He can handle them easily.

“He was keeping me company,” he admits, voice quieting. “He… he’s my friend.” His tone says the opposite; whether he knows it or not, he sounds scared of Dream. 

“Yeah?” Techno settles on asking, gently applying an ointment to the burns. He smiles a bit when Tommy swears under his breath. 

“Yeah! He came around and hung out with me a lot,” he hesitates for a moment. “I don’t know why. He’s never really liked me. But it was nice, he was the only one who really came to see me.” 

Techno has an idea what changed Tommy, now. He knows Dream. They were friends for years, when he himself was incredibly vulnerable, and the fact is that Dream can be a merciless, manipulative person. 

He thinks about cut-off hair and cruel words and-- yeah, he doesn’t want to _dwell_ , but he knows. 

Did Dream… _hurt_ Tommy, so much that it made him act so differently? He thinks about how willing his brother was to give up all his things, even his armor, and how he literally offered his _last life_ because of his (honestly very minor) theft. 

And then there's the cuts, those neat little wounds. The implications are… grim.

“-chno? Techno?” 

He looks up. He’s finished bandaging Tommy’s shins, and apparently stopped moving completely, just staring into space. He viciously shakes his head. “Yeah, sorry. Got lost for a minute.” He grabs the ointment again. “Give me your arm. What were you saying?” 

“Oh, I was just talking about the things I built and stuff,” he says. He holds out his arm, and he starts cleaning that burn too. “It’s not important. They’re all gone now, anyway.” In the stark firelight, he looks very hurt by that knowledge. 

“Why did he blow up your things?” He asks, out of a morbid curiosity. He carefully spreads the ointment onto the burn and then wraps a bandage around his arm, tight enough to stay but not tight enough to accidentally damage his burns. 

Tommy is quiet-- uncharacteristically quiet-- for a few minutes, during which Techno moves onto cleaning the blood from his face. He’ll have to wash his hair before figuring out what’s on his head that’s bleeding. 

“He said it was to teach me a lesson,” he says. “Because I hid stuff from him. I had some chests, with some stuff I gathered… I thought he’d take it…” 

_Doesn’t sound very friendly of him_ , he wants to say. He thinks about the fact that Dream was apparently the only person who visited Tommy in exile. About how he said he was his _friend_. About how he basically threw his things at him, thinking… thinking he’d want to take them, _burn_ them, kill _him_.

Rage boils in his stomach.

They’re both very quiet, for a few minutes that feel like hours, until Tommy says, voice cracking, “Techno, I don’t think Dream was ever really my friend.” 

His immediate thought is a sharp response, fueled by his anger; “ _of course he wasn’t, you stupid bitch_.” 

When he looks at him, placing a bandage on his cheek, he feels his heart shatter within his chest, sinking into the rage and turning it into pain, at the lost look on his face. Like someone had just taken a fundamental truth about his life and told him it had been a lie all along. 

“I don’t think he was,” he agrees, quietly.

The only thing stopping him from finding Dream and killing him over and over again, like the voices practically scream for, is the fact that he can’t just leave Tommy like this. 

He’s never been good at comforting. He’s not Wilbur, who’s voice alone could soothe even the fussiest child to sleep, or Philza, who’s calming and gentle and has a good, fatherly energy. He’s _Technoblade,_ a warrior, a killer, a monster hell-bent on blood and destruction. The Blood God, and nothing more. 

(Okay, maybe that’s a little bit of a… biased view. Techno doesn’t like himself very much.) 

But his little brother is sitting in front of him, tears brimming on his eyelashes, after someone who said he was his friend manipulated him and destroyed his things and, maybe, didn’t care for him at all. And he knows, he _knows_ so well how that feels. 

“Come here,” he says quietly, abandoning his quest to clean him up. Comfort is more important, right now. He holds out his arms, and Tommy all but dives into them, face against his shoulder, arms tight around his middle.

The tears spill over and soak into his shirt, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about anything but calming him down, comforting him, fixing all that Dream did to him. 

When he starts sobbing-- genuinely _sobbing_ , his back heaving and the sounds hoarse-- he doesn’t hush him, just runs his fingers through his dirty hair and rubs his back and tells him he’s _okay_ , that he’s _safe,_ that he’s _alright_ now. That he won’t let a _single thing_ happen to him. 

They stay like that, for a while, until Tommy sobs so hard he starts choking. Techno doesn’t hesitate to pull away, offering him a bottle of water. His face is flushed, the split in his lip reopened, and tears are smeared all over his cheeks. He looks like a little kid, like he was when they took him in. 

(He remembers that day clearly; Phil had brought in this scrawny, fluffy-haired, crying kid, clinging to him like a lifeline, and told a ten-year-old Wilbur and a nine-year-old Techno that this was their new brother. 

Techno took one look at the toddler and announced that human children were weird-looking. Wilbur had giggled, and Phil told him he was unfortunate to be a half-human child himself.)

“How’re you feeling?” He asks, once Tommy gets his breathing under control and manages to mostly stop crying. 

“Bad,” he says, hoarsely. “I feel like I could keep crying for years.” 

He frowns. Isolation isn’t good for anyone, but especially not a social, developing teenager like Tommy. Why did they think exile was a good idea for him? God. 

“After you’re cleaned up, and you eat something, you can go to bed,” he promises. He gets up-- all the touching makes him feel nervous, which he hates-- and goes to get out something to eat. “Do you wanna finish cleaning yourself up, or do you want me to?” 

“I can do it,” he says quietly. 

He keeps an eye on him while he makes something warm to eat. Soup would be most helpful, both for comfort and for warmth, but he doesn’t want to make Tommy wait. He throws some meat into the furnace and digs out a potato to bake for him. That won’t be long, he supposes. It’ll help, anyway. 

He doesn’t do much more than clean himself up. His cuts, the scrapes on his arms, and his lip, all are wiped clean and those that need bandages are covered. He notices Tommy isn’t very gentle with himself. 

“Finish that healing potion,” he says, glad his voice doesn’t waver. “I don’t think you’re up for a bath, but do you want to at least wash your hair?” 

“That’d be nice,” Tommy says quietly. “I can do it, if you show me where.” 

Food will take a few more minutes, so he shows him to the small bathroom. He doesn’t think before grabbing his razor off the counter and sticking it in his pocket. He loves Tommy, but he knows the urge to self-harm even more, and he won’t enable it. 

“Come out when you’re ready.” He says. He nods, looking worn-out and still so, so _small_. 

He basically flees back to cooking. Between the wounds and the fact that he knows his little brother has been hurting himself and how he has a slight limp-- he’s feeling frazzled, okay.

When he gets back to the kitchen area, he glances over at the fire, and isn’t surprised to see Philza stoking the fire, kneeling in front of it with his back turned. His presence makes some of the tension in Techno’s shoulders relax.

“So,” he says, still turned away. “You got hurt?” 

He shakes his head, busying himself with cooking. “No,” he hesitates, not knowing how to explain what happened. He’s still reeling a little, from how Tommy has changed and how small he is and the wounds and fucking _Dream abusing his little brother_. 

He sets out the food on his small table, grabbing a drink as well. He’s too nauseous from the day’s events to eat, but he at least grabs his own drink to get something in his body. He’ll eat later, probably. 

He’s sure Phil’s about to ask again, always worried about him (he’s always been the favorite, against every middle-child stereotype) when Tommy comes out of the bathroom, drying his hair on a towel. The fact that he’s clean makes a major difference; he immediately looks healthier, even though his eyes are all shiny like they’ve been the whole time he’s been here. 

He doesn’t seem to notice their father, staring at him with raised brows and a parted, confused mouth, walking quickly over to the table and immediately digging into his food. “Thank you,” he mumbles, in the handful of seconds he’s not shoving food into his mouth. 

“No problem,” Techno says, leaning on the table. “It’ll probably taste better if you actually chew it, Toms.” 

“I don’t even care,” He says, mouth full. “I haven’t actually felt hungry in _weeks_.” 

He can’t help the awkward laugh that leaves him. Just how badly has he been doing, mentally speaking? Sure, the cuts tell him _not fucking great_ , but not feeling hungry? Not wanting to eat? That’s a bad, _bad_ sign. 

He runs a hand through his hair, unraveling his braid. It was all fucked up anyway, he didn’t bother to keep up with it all day. He needs to go get his glasses, because he's getting a headache, but now he’s worried to be away from Tommy. 

He takes a sip of his water and sits down on the chair across from him. “Are you feeling any better?”

He nods. His plate is already almost clear. “A little. Being a bit more clean feels better, at least,” he pauses, frowning. “Everything kinda hurts, but I think I’ll be okay.” 

He nods along. It makes sense. He doesn’t think Tommy has hypothermia or anything, but he’s definitely not healthy-- too thin, too pale, obviously sleep deprived… the flush on his cheeks might be from a fever, he’ll have to check--

“Tommy?” Phil’s voice cracks in the middle of his son’s name. Tommy’s shoulders go tense and Techno can watch the shaky smile on his face spread. 

He can also watch as he stumbles to his feet, and falls directly into their father’s arms. The tears start again promptly.

“Shh, hey, it’s okay!” Phil laughs, running his hand through Tommy’s still-damp hair before pulling the two of them apart. “I’m here, it’s okay. What happened, mate? How did you get here?” 

Tommy sob-laughs, tears pouring down his cheeks. “I walked, for like _forever_. And then I tried to hide underground after t-takin’ some stuff, but Techno found me right away-- ‘cause of course he d-did--” Techno smothers a laugh in his gloved palm, and Phil grins over Tommy’s shoulder, “and now I’m here!” 

“I’m glad you’re here,” Phil says quietly, pulling his youngest son into another tight hug. 

He doesn’t want to break up the cute moment, something he’s seen too little of recently, but there are other concerns other than a reunion. “Does he feel like he has a fever?” He says, a bit too abruptly. Ah, well. He’s ran out of soft and comforting, nice energy tonight, and it’s not even that late.

Of course, the answer is _yes--_ prompting him to immediately think “Technoblade is always right”-- and Tommy is dragged to bed. 

He isn’t sure if he should be worried about how easily he goes along with it. He doesn’t even argue when Phil forcefully tucks him under the blankets, simply sinking into the mattress and closing his eyes against the hand that runs through his hair. 

He does complain when Techno lays a cool, damp washcloth over his forehead. He scrunches up his face and tiredly bats away his hand. “That’s cold,” he mumbles. “I don’t like it.” 

“Too bad,” he says, taking some level of amusement in the weak attempt. He opens his eyes and squints disdainfully at him. “That doesn’t work on me, Tommy. I _taught_ you how to make that face.”

He giggles a little, before schooling his expression back into annoyance. “I wanna sleep,” he mumbles. 

“Then go to sleep,” he tells him, definitely amused. 

“Are you gonna let me stay?” He asks, thickly, staring up at him through the awry strands of his bangs. 

Techno bites his tongue. There’s always a chance he will regret this, mostly because… well, the past doesn’t lie, but he can’t bear to say that to his feverish, injured, somehow-more-traumatized little brother right now. 

“It would be inconvenient if you died, so yeah, you’re staying,” he says. Tommy giggles again. “I can’t dig a grave out here. Planting is hard enough.” 

“Yay, I’m saved ‘cause Tech’s lazy,” Tommy says, obviously starting to get sleepy, his words beginning to slur. “Dad, did you hear him? I’m stayin’ here.” 

“That’s great, Tommy,” Phil says, running a hand through his grown-out hair. “We’re gonna have to talk in the morning, but for now, just go to sleep.” 

“M’kay,” he mumbles. His eyes slip closed again, and he raises something from his chest-- a compass on a chain?-- and kisses it’s glass face, before turning over on his side and snuggling down under the blankets. 

Techno physically deflates and rubs his face with his palms, groaning. 

“You’ve had an eventful day, huh?” Phil asks, amused. 

He drops a hand just to glare at him, through his own now-messy hair. “You didn’t see him when I first found him. He was-- is-- so hurt. And…” he groans again, ears pinning themselves flat to his head. “He wasn’t just injured. Apparently...” he hesitates. “Apparently Dream was around him a lot. While he was all by himself.” 

The amusement melts away, replaced by a cool mask of concern. “What’s Dream got to do with any of this?” 

“He’s apparently been manipulating and abusing Tommy while he was exiled.” It’s blunt, but it’s accurate. He doesn’t even feel bad for how his father flinches. “When I found him, below the house… he just threw down all his stuff and told me to take it, or burn it, or--” His throat feels tight. The scream in his head is absolutely wordless and upset. While there’s surely rage, there’s also a horrible aching sadness. “Or _kill_ him.” 

Phil takes his hand, squeezing it so tight the leather of his glove creaks. 

Tommy raises his head slightly from the pillow. “D’you guys wanna help me kill Dream?” he asks in a heavy slur, eyes barely open. “Not now. When ‘m better. You wanna help me?”

“Sure,” Techno agrees, retirement and vow against violence be damned. He’s angry enough to forget. “Go back to sleep, Tommy.” 

“Stop talkin’ and I will,” he mumbles, sinking back into the pillows. “G’night. Love you guys.” 

“Goodnight,” they both echo. Phil verbally returns the _I love you,_ while Techno simply runs his hand through his hair and hopes it’s clear in the action. 

They spend most of the rest of the night in silence. 

**Author's Note:**

> "mr hydrangeasheart do you write anything but tommy and techno-centric angst" no. next question
> 
> follow me on tumblr @ slayerofboys and yell at me for writing minecraft fanfic instead of sleeping


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